your mouth is poison
by dance-at-bougival
Summary: She does this sometimes. Sees how far she can push him before he pushes back.


a/n: just a short klaus/rebekah drabble. set sometime during the late nineteenth century, before all that pesky stefan business. enjoy and review!

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><p>The opera box is dark and lush, red and gold both, and Rebekah is surrounded solely by the hush of velvet and the soprano's soaring solo. She glides into the box in a gown of white, the skins of a dozen virgins sewed into silk and embedded with pearls. Her brother, as always, follows suit.<p>

Klaus's fingers tap on his glass of chilled champagne, the pads of that steely flesh soft against the Venetian glass, and Rebekah tilts her head, watches him through hooded eyes. She knows that grip. Knows that grip better than anyone dead or living. She has felt it, hard against against her own skin, crafted out of some alien kind of metal.

She supposes it must be the wolf in him.

"Dinner, Nik," she purrs from behind him, her lips a breath of a distance from the shell of his ear. "I'm famished."

She watches, through dark gold lashes_—same shade as yours, my love_—as he touches his tongue to his bottom lip, the tiniest of movements. Rebekah holds her breath in wait.

He turns his head to hers, but she has already fallen back, melted herself into the shadows.

"Eloise," he says in French, speckled with the barest trace of an accent—her brother has never had her gift for tongues. Never does he adapt except when he has to. Rebekah, though, Rebekah changes with the wind. "Darling. Come on in."

The girl is pale, just the barest hint of pink in her cheeks. Her light hair falls in heavy ringlets around her small face, and when the girl dares to raise her eyes to gaze at her brother, Rebekah sees that they are as blue as the sea. Rebekah marches forward, smiles, and raises a gloved hand to the girl's cheek.

"Eloise," Rebekah murmurs, her fanged grin bright and blooming, as her hand tightens on her cheek, her fingernails digging in past the silk of her glove. She brushes an idle kiss against the girl's pale cheek, and bites into her long throat.

Her lips come away dark with blood, smeared the same colour as the velvet all around her, same as her rouge, same as the marks her brother's hands leave on her skin.

"Care for a bite, Nik?" She proffers the girl's soiled neck to her brother, licks up some of the blood that falls in a long red streak, marking the place where she is no longer untouched. "You picked a good one tonight. She's all champagne and caviar."

Her brother looks up at her from the seat in which he had been sprawling, watching her feed. "You go on, Bekah. I'll find one for myself later on."

She does this sometimes. Sees how far she can push him before he pushes back.

"You sure?" She asks slowly, drawing the word out so that it curves around her tongue, merges with the blood in her mouth, sweet with champagne and dark with want. She sweeps a finger down the length of the girl's long throat, and her glove comes away red.

Her brother's eyes darken. Rebekah smiles.

He is by her side in an instant—_always, always_—his teeth buried hard in the girl's white flesh, darkening and soiling by the second. He drinks deep, as he always does, of anything and everything. Her brother wants life the way other men want air.

Rebekah laughs; the sound lost in the soaring crescendo of the theatre below them, and digs her teeth into the other side of the girl's neck. Beneath the rise and fall of the girl's ribs, Rebekah's hands finds her brother's, and locks hard.

_You are mine,_ she wants to whisper, wants to breathe the words directly into his ear, so that his soul may eat it up. _You are mine, you are mine, you are mine._

There are things that go without saying. This is one of them.

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><p>Afterwards, they stand on either side of a dead girl's corpse, and she pushes forward, closer than she needs to, so that the front of her silken skirts brush against the dark velvet of his three piece suit.<p>

She reaches up, her soiled glove against his jaw, with all the pretense of a sister, and kisses him on the cheek. Her mouth lingers, the merest whisper away from his, and when she pulls back, her lips are stained again. She does not wipe him clean.


End file.
